


at a break-neck speed

by Anonymous



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 17:45:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15175997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Hi John,” Auston says, and his voice is soft. “Welcome to Toronto.”John swallows.





	at a break-neck speed

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own
> 
> I don't actually know that much about the Islanders, so sorry in advance for that.
> 
> Some warnings at the end just to be safe, although I don't think there's anything too serious I need to warn for
> 
> Also ao3 fucked up the entire thing the first time I posted this and only posted like 1k of it? And like deleted half my formatting? It's definitely more than 1k words I wasted too much time for it to be only 1k

Auston is days shy of 21 the first time they meet as teammates. John is just short of 28.

Maybe that alone should have stopped him, and if he was a better person it probably would have. But Auston is waiting for him in an office like a dream, perched against the table with his arms crossed, and looks up at him through his eyelashes, not quite meeting his eye, bottom lip wet where he’s worrying at it.

“Hi John,” Auston says, and his voice is soft. “Welcome to Toronto.”

John swallows.

. . .

Auston watches him a lot, lingering glances just short enough to be shy of openly staring.

“Quit the hero worship,” Willy chirps loudly, kicking at Auston’s shins from his stall next to him.

It startles John, and he looks up from where he’s taping his stick. Auston whips his head away and goes red so fast John thinks he may be imagining it, and looks back down to where he had been drawing a smiley face on his glove. 

It’s cute, John thinks. It reminds him of being that age again-- when he still thought Long Island was his to take, when he would pray to Mike Bossy at the Coli with nothing but untainted hope, when he was still their savior. 

He catches Auston staring again later, and offers a smile this time. Auston flushes again, but smiles back. He gets it, and in all honesty, it’s a nice feeling.

. . .

They’re just two days into training camp when they give John an A. Auston is there too, and so is Mo, because the two of them have jerseys in their hands as well, identical A’s stitched onto the left shoulders.

John knows that this is about the bigger picture here, and that as soon as Auston’s ready, his A will be replaced with a C, and John will still be there by his side. Still, it’s a little strange that the jersey he’s holding up for the pictures is a different shade of blue, with a different letter in the corner, a different wunderkind to his left with bright eyes and squared shoulders and bad hair.

John gets changed quickly into his street clothes in the locker room after the press conference is over, folding his dress shirt and pants into his bag. Auston takes his time, but catches up to him as he’s heading out, John almost to the parking garage already when he hears his voice.

“Hey,” Auston calls, and when John turns around Auston slows down from his half jog.

“Hey, Auston,” John says back. “What’s up?”

Auston’s changed out of his dress shirt too, and now he’s in more weather appropriate clothes-- these ripped jean shorts and a loose shirt, a hat with a logo John doesn’t recognize pulled over his hair, curling behind his ears. When he stops just short of where John’s waiting, he kicks his feet a little against the ground, and John’s abruptly aware that Auston’s weird patterned shoes with untied laces are probably worth more than anything John’s wearing right now, and that he is far more out of his element coming in here than he realized. 

“I was thinking,” Auston starts, and ducks his head. “Do you want to get lunch?”

“Oh,” John says, startled. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t really that.

“I mean--” Auston says quickly, weirdly flushed. It is a little hot out, John supposes. “It’s just to talk about like the season, and team, and-- and I don’t know.”

Auston rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “If you have questions, or anything, I can answer them. And if you don’t already have plans, of course.”

“No, no plans,” John says hastily, because he’s not entirely sure, but Auston seems like he’s freaking out just a little bit. “I just assumed you’d already be going somewhere with Marner or Nylander, I guess.”

He gets a laugh out of Auston at that, and he lifts his head to look at John again.

“I see plenty of Mitchy and Willy already,” he says, mouth twisted into a smile. “Sushi?”

“Sure,” John says, and watches Auston dig his keys out of his pocket. 

“Great.” He flashes John a grin. “I’ll drive.”

. . . 

The place they go is kind of ridiculous, but it’s nice, of course, because apparently that’s how Auston rolls. John hasn’t been here before, not even in the summers when he’s home, since it’s not really his scene. The heart of downtown, where they’re sure to be recognized, though Auston doesn’t seem to mind, and no one approaches their table even though people definitely see them.

Auston is quiet while they wait for their food, messing with his chopsticks and tapping them against his glass of water with no sort of rhythm. 

John clears his throat. “Where’s Mo?” he asks. It’s not that he needs Mo to be here, or anything, but he kind of figured it would be the three of them moving forward together.

Auston looks up at him, and his hands still. “Oh, um, he had a thing,” he says, stilted, and waves one chopstick vaguely. “So uh, just us, this time.”

“Right,” John says, and leans forward on his elbows. “So tell me a little about the team then.”

That sets Auston off until the food comes, talking and gesturing wildly, clearly ecstatic. _Mitchy,_ he says, _Willy, Freddie, Naz, Gards, Patty_ , and his voice is unbelievably fond.

“There’s gonna be a thing at Naz’s place soon,” Auston says, back to clinking his chopsticks together, leg bouncing under the table, restless. “Everyone’s gonna be there. I’m so excited for the season dude.”

 _Dude,_ John thinks a little hysterically.

“Me too,” John says instead, surprised it comes out even. And it’s true. That’s what he came here for, after all.

“I’m happy we got you,” Auston says, averting his gaze, quieter this time, and John doesn’t understand why, exactly.

But John watches the flex of his fingers, his hands, his forearms, and nods.

. . . 

Being on the ice is as effortless as he imagined when he put his pen to paper back in July. 

Hyman digs pucks out for him like a workhorse and Marns is up and down the ice on his other wing in a flash, and it’s almost too easy for John to be tapping pucks in just a few feet away from the net like this. 

Auston taps him on the shin when he circles around to the back of the line, and offers an enthusiastic smile.

“Nice,” he says, and holds his fist out.

It’s only practice, of course, but he feels good when Babs calls him into his office after.

“JT,” he says, voice monotone yet still as fear inducing as John’s always remembered. 

“Coach,” he replies, fisting his hands at his sides.

“I’m thinking of keeping you and Hyms and Mitchy together on a line for our preseason games. We’ll see how that goes, then we’ll figure out what we’ll do for the season. Sound good?”

“Yes,” John says almost immediately. “I think practice has been going really well with them.”

“Me too,” Babs nods. “I think you boys are really clicking. I know I’ve said this before, many times, but we’re real happy to have you. You’re doing good.”

“Thank you,” John says, and smiles. It’s nice to be wanted, and even nicer to be wanted somewhere with people he can win with, is all.

. . . 

By the time John gets back into the locker room, the last notes of Happy Birthday are fading out, and Willy’s got Auston in a headlock. Both of them are laughing, tumbling into John’s space in his stall.

“Yo JT!” Mitch calls from his other side. “Boys are goin’ out for Matts’ birthday tonight, you coming?” 

“Of course,” John says. He shouldn’t, and wouldn’t, miss an opportunity for team bonding at this stage in the season. He’s been in the game long enough to know how important team chemistry is, and he’d be damned if he gave up everything just to end up not fitting in with a bunch of kids. “Oh, and happy birthday, Auston,” he says. “Sorry I wasn’t here to sing to you, but you know _your_ stalls are actually about five feet to the right.”

Mitch, Willy, and Auston are stunned for a second, before Mitch doubles over laughing, sending the other two into giggles themselves. 

“Oh man,” Mitch says, gasping for breath. “New dad alert, jeez.”

And, well, John will take it.

Mitch sends the address later in the groupchat, some generic bar John’s probably been to before.

 _Will see EVERYONE there tonight,_ Mitch adds.

 _For sure. The big 2-1,_ Carrick says.

 _No one cares about that except u Americans lol. but happy bday Matts!_ Kappy sends, and John snorts. 

Auston sends a middle finger in response.

. . .

John is running a little late, after having taken an unreasonably long time agonizing over what to wear. He settled for a black shirt and jeans, in the end, hoping he’s not too over or underdressed for this. He hasn’t been this nervous for something like this since he was a rookie, and it’s terrifying, to say the least. 

The boys apparently fed Auston shots before John showed up, and someone dumps Auston into his arms the moment he gets in.

“Hey you made it,” Auston says, and laughs at absolutely nothing, hiccuping as he reaches up to pat John’s cheek. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

John catches his wrist before Auston can poke his eye out by accident. “I said I’d be here, didn’t I?”

Auston flushes, and looks pleased, still letting John hold most of his weight, making no move to untangle his hand from John’s grip. “Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking down to John’s mouth, obvious. His own eyes track the movement involuntarily, the flutter of his eyelashes, and there’s a moment, then, when John thinks--

“More birthday shots,” Naz interrupts, appearing out of nowhere with Willy by his side. Dangerous duo. 

“Let’s go, Auston,” Willy says, and hauls Auston away.

John ends up at the table with Hyms and Brownie, and the three of them get into a pretty lengthy debate about the suburbs of Toronto before Hyms and Brownie team up against him for being from Mississauga.

“I was born, physically, in Mississauga. I lived like every other second of my life in _Oakville_ ,” John explains, because seriously, _Mississauga?_

The two of them don’t buy it, and John sighs in resignation before heading to the bar and getting himself a beer. He doesn’t even get to finish before he feels a hand on his back, too low to be casual.

“What’s up,” Auston says, leaning right into the vee of John’s thighs as he spins around in his chair. 

“Getting a drink,” John says, shrugging. Auston’s pretty much bombed at this point, and lays a hand high up on John’s thigh, sidling closer.

“What are you doing after this?” His voice is low, the way he opens up towards John unsubtle.

“Going home,” John says.

“It’s my birthday,” Auston says, eyes huge, words running together, and inches his hand higher.

“Well happy birthday again,” John says, and knocks back the rest of his drink. 

Auston pouts at him, like a fucking child.

“Guys are waiting,” John says, glancing back at the table Brownie and Hyms are still at, and gently pries Auston’s hand off his leg. 

It takes a lot, the rest of the night, to not give into the urge to go find Auston. John hasn’t hooked up in a while, not since he ended things with Haley months ago. He’s over it, for sure, so that’s not the thing. It’s just-- it would be nice, probably, but-- he’s not gonna think about it, and gets sufficiently drunk himself to cap off a pretty good night.

. . .

Things are good. Great, even. They win a lot during preseason, and even though it doesn’t mean shit it makes it more fun for sure. John plays four games and gets scratched for the other four, Babs deeming his line of Mitch and Hyms apparently decent enough to stay together and get a break. Auston scores goals like breathing, him and Marleau finding chemistry to match what he and Willy already seemed to have. They play even fewer games than John does, because they’ve got nothing to prove to anyone in the middle of September. John meets rookies and Marlies guys, centers a few of them for a few shifts here and there. In the end, none of them actually stay up, and when the final roster is set a bit of the tension starts to ease. 

Aside from hockey, he hangs out with Patty and Gards a little, guys closer to his age for once, and only feels a little weird that he’s not married yet like they are, much less still _single._ He grabs lunch and dinner with a few other guys, Mo, Mitch, and Naz, who is still more or less the same mess he was when they were in juniors. It brings back a lot of memories of being young again, and he’s glad they can still laugh about the stupid shit they got up to when they were younger. He goes out with Auston, again, but not alone this time, because Auston brings Freddie, and the two of them are weirdly compatible in a way John didn’t expect. 

Time flies, and by the time Naz’s thing rolls around, they’ve only got a few days left until the home opener. 

Naz caters for the team, because he still can’t cook for shit apparently, and John starts wandering once he feels loose enough from knocking back a few beers just because he still can. 

It gets late. Marns is saying something in his ear about somewhere he went with his girl this summer, drink sloshing onto the ground between their shoes, and Gards is on his other side listening intently. All of it is going right over his head, though, because across the room Auston is staring at him, lip caught between his teeth, eyes dark.

John meets his eyes, and Auston doesn’t even blink, just flushes deeper than he already was from the alcohol, or something else entirely. Auston isn’t even pretending to nod along to whatever Cees is saying to him at this point, and John is caught on the way his throat works as he takes a sip of his beer. The way his tongue flicks out to lick at his lips, pink, wet, purposeful. 

“Bathroom,” John says, standing suddenly and tearing his gaze from Auston’s mouth. He nearly knocks Marns’ cup out of his hand, mumbles some semblance of an apology, and heads up the stairs.

On a hunch, he leaves the door open just a crack, and braces himself against the sink to take a deep breath. 

The door opens seconds later, and John doesn’t even have to look up to see who it is.

“Hey,” Auston says, and shuts the door quietly behind him. 

John straightens up, and turns around to face him.

“You were staring,” John says flatly but not unkindly. He crosses his arms. “What’s going on.”

Auston bites his lip, moving closer. “You were staring too,” he says, and shrugs, coy. “I think you know.”

And John knows, he does fucking know. He knows that for some reason he can’t stop watching Auston, the way he skates and shoots the puck and the way he carries himself and the way he hates eye contact and sucks on his bottom lip when he’s thinking, the way he can’t stop watching John right back. For some reason he keeps forgetting he’s here to do his job, goddamn it, and he hasn’t even been here a few weeks and he’s already thinking about fucking the franchise superstar. He knows, doesn’t know why he asked. He just needs Auston to say it. 

But instead, Auston blinks up at him with owlish eyes, long lashes, and _Jesus Christ,_ he’s still a kid. He’s just now legal to drink back in the States, they weren’t even ready to name him captain yet, and all he talks about is _Fortnite_ and _memes,_ and he’s a fucking _kid._ John takes a step back. 

“You’re a kid,” John says, out loud this time, and shakes his head. 

“I’m 21,” Auston says, taking a step towards John again. “I’m not a kid, JT.” 

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” John tries again, and now Auston is only inches away from him, breath hot. “You’re drunk.”

“Barely,” Auston says, right as John’s back hits the door. “I can make my own decisions. I’m not a kid,” he repeats, and despite his height advantage, manages to look up at John through his lashes, like he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. Just like the first day. 

His resolve crumbles. “Fine,” he breathes, and tangles a hand in the hair at the back of Auston’s head, slots a thigh between his legs and feels the way Auston shudders as he pulls him closer. 

“Tell me to stop,” he says, right up against Auston’s mouth. “Last chance.”

Auston closes the distance between them, doesn’t say a word. 

It’s probably cliche to say Auston kisses like he plays, but it’s true. He’s confident, surging forward, trying to take control immediately. John feels something balloon in his chest at the way Auston’s hands scrabble at the door before finding purchase on John’s hips, and coaxes Auston’s mouth open with his tongue. 

With a groan, Auston lets him, and John tries to slow it down from there. It works, for a little bit, Auston letting John set the pace, hands itching at the hem of John’s shirt. John lets him get his hands under, indulgent, tugging a little at Auston’s hair, hearing Auston groan again.

But Auston is impatient, and says something John can’t make out with lips still pressed to John’s. 

“What?” John pulls back to say, and takes in the sight before him. Auston’s hair is a mess, lips swollen, chin and jaw red from stubble burn. It sends a shock of arousal through John to see him disheveled like this, and he has to tamp down on the urge to pull him back in immediately. 

“Take me home,” Auston says.

There are a million reasons why John should say no and send him back downstairs for Marns to deal with. A million more why they should never ever do this again and never ever speak of it again. But John just left nine years of his life back on the east coast and came home in the hardest months of his life because he wanted it. He wants this too, and that should be enough.

“Okay,” he says, and kisses Auston again. 

. . .

None of Auston’s desperation has faded by the time they get back to John’s place, and the way he squirms under John makes it hard for him to get his clothes off. 

“Lemme--” John says, hands under Auston’s shirt, and Auston complies long enough for John to take it off of him. Auston is _thick,_ bulky and tan after a summer of training, and John swallows as he runs a hand down Auston’s side. 

“Hurry up,” Auston whines, and gets his hands on John’s belt, before lifting his own hips to pull his pants and underwear off. 

“You done this before?” John asks once they’re both naked.

Auston rolls his eyes, as if it’s a stupid question. “ _Yes,_ ” he says. “I’m not a virgin.”

“Okay, just checking,” John says, relieved. “What do you want?” And watches the way Auston bites his lip, thinking. 

“Can you-- can you fuck me?” He asks, sounding almost shy. 

John ducks his head against Auston’s chest, head spinning with arousal.

“Of course,” he says, and leans up to kiss him. Auston opens up for him easily, so perfect for him already.

“On your front,” John says, and watches Auston turn around, the vulnerable nape of his neck, the curve of his spine, the swell of his ass, thighs spread for him. It’s-- it’s _a lot,_ but John takes a breath, runs a comforting hand down Auston’s back.

“JT--” Auston says, voice low, and John knows desperation when he hears it. 

“Okay,” he says, and reaches for the lube. 

John preps him then fucks him just like that, Auston’s head tucked between his own arms and breathing John’s name. It’s good, It’s _so_ good, and not just because it’s been a while. Auston wasn’t lying-- he knows what he’s doing, meeting his thrusts, pushing back best he can while John’s draped over him, and John loses his breath when Auston clenches tight and hot around him.

“I’m close,” Auston says, and in the next thrust John punches a moan right out of his chest. He reaches around, gets a hand on Auston’s dick, and presses his mouth to the back of Auston’s neck, right under the hairline.

“Don’t,” Auston warns, and turns his head, John’s lips falling closer to his jaw instead. 

“I won’t,” John soothes, and turns to kiss him instead. 

Auston comes like that, mouth pressed hungrily to John’s, arms shaking when he collapses to the bed, unable to hold the weight anymore.

John snakes an arm around Auston’s chest, pulling him back until their bodies are pressed flush together, and bites gently at his earlobe. Auston shivers, sensitive still, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Keep going,” Auston says, voice soft but sure, and, well, John’s always been good at following directions. 

Auston kisses him through it, when he comes, hips stilling and breathing hard, and it’s not the best orgasm he’s ever had, but it’s close. It’s really too bad it’s going to be a one time thing.

. . .

It keeps happening.

John starts the season strong. The Leafs win five of their first six, potting five, six, seven goals a night. Auston and John are tied for first on the team in points, though Auston has him beat by a long shot in goals. It’s a lot of fun, having a competitor and a friend like this. Auston pushes him on the ice to be better, giving as good as he gets when they take faceoffs in practice, not afraid to chew John out about his defensive gaps in between periods, and shouldering some of John’s media attention at times post game. 

And off the ice--

Auston comes home with him after their home opener. He hadn’t scored four goals this time, but he did have three points to beat John’s two, and John figures that’s pretty good anyway. They’d gone out with the team after the win, but Auston had caught him on the way to the bathroom, grin huge.

“Hey,” he says, crowding John against the wall, and John’s suddenly extremely aware of Auston’s hand on the bare skin of his wrist. And also of the fact that they’re in public.

He says as much to Auston, who smirks. “Then how about we take this somewhere a little more… _private_.”

That line is terrible, and John’s embarrassed for Auston that he says it with such confidence, but mostly he’s just embarrassed for himself that it still works on him nonetheless.

They go back to Auston’s place this time, and it’s only after they swap blowjobs that it occurs to John that he was supposed to say no. This wasn’t supposed to happen again, and the thought of it kind of ruins the nice afterglow he was basking in.

“We should keep doing this,” Auston says abruptly, like he read John’s mind, hand stilling where he’d been tracing a pattern on John’s shoulder. He seems nervous.

John should say no, this time. This is his chance to stop fucking around with a 21 year old teammate before it turns into something more, something neither of them want.

John should say no. But--

. . .

John falls into a nice routine, and it’s comforting to find a rhythm again after nine years of the same one.

He goes to morning skates, he hangs with guys on the team, whether it’s lunch, or dinner, or even video games sometimes. He even learns to play Fortnite, but he’s shit at it, and the guys give him crap for how often they have to cover for him when they play squads. He gets good at finding Mitch on his wing during games, at hauling ass to the net so Mitch can feed him with a magical return pass through like three defenders for yet another goal. They win, they win, and they win. 

“Boys are going streaking!” Auston says once they’ve won their sixth straight, and he and Mitch absolutely _lose it_ at the disapproving face Patty makes at them.

Occasionally he’ll deviate a bit from his usual schedule. Sometimes he goes all the way home to Oakville and lets his mom cook for him because he gets tired of doing it all on his own. He’s 28, but he still loves the way his mom makes his favorite pasta, and the way his dad still tries to talk hockey all the time. Other times he sits out on his balcony alone, though it’s getting a little cold to be doing that so much. Those are the times he lets himself think about New York. He thinks about Cal, and Anders, and Hickey, even Ebs, and Barzy and Tito. And if he doesn’t think too hard, Toronto isn’t all that different on good days. Outside of hockey, it’s not better, it’s not worse. It just… is. 

But Toronto does have Auston, who seems to be on a hot streak fueled by the disappointment of playoffs last season, who is becoming a more frequent fixture in John’s life than he ever thought possible, and who currently has his mouth wrapped around John’s dick for the third time this week. And it’s only _Thursday._

John comes with a hand twisted in Auston’s hair, hips pressed so close to Auston’s nose he’s not sure how Auston’s still breathing. Auston looks up at him with huge, watery eyes, lips stretched wide, throat working as he swallows. John tugs him off once it starts to hurt, and watches as Auston gasp for breath as he gets himself off with a hand in his shorts, so fast it looks like it _hurts_ , coming in his pants like he’s still in high school.

“Shit,” Auston breathes as John slides to the floor with him, knees still wobbly.

Auston’s hair is a mess from John’s grip, beyond salvaging at this point, and they’re going to have to shower before they can do anything else.

“C’mere,” John says and holds his arms open, and feels something sweet as Auston crawls over without hesitation. 

“We should get off the floor,” Auston says, leaning his head against John’s chest, and John runs his fingers lightly across the chain around Auston’s neck. “And you should make me dinner,” he says, tone light.

“Shower first,” John says, because he feels sticky still. “You can borrow clothes, and I’ll pay for takeout instead,” he says, and presses a smile into Auston’s hair.

. . .

November blows by in a rush. They hit Boston then have their west coast road trip, back home for a hot second before they’re on the road again. It’s exhausting, and it’s getting to the point where John’s getting bruises and aches that aren’t going away, but at least they’re winning, on pace to outdo even last year’s record breaking year. 

The month’s almost over when they finally get to go home and stay there for a bit, and that means a few things.

One, that John will get to sleep in his own bed finally, not cold hotel rooms and plane seats. Two, that he will have to go home to see his parents again, because homesickness does that to him. And three, that he’ll get to have Auston alone again.

It never really occurred to him how much he misses it until they can’t, and feels a tugging in his chest when Auston follows him to his car at the airport, duffel and all.

They don’t even make it to the bedroom when they get back. Auston pushes him down right there on the couch, clothes scattered all over the living room floor, and wraps a hand around both of them.

“That’s it,” John says, breathless, and colour rises to Auston’s cheeks at the encouragement.

John finishes first, then holds Auston as he shakes through his own orgasm, mouth pressed to Auston’s pulse point. Auston sags against him after, and wipes his dirty hand on John’s stomach, then laughs so hard he almost cries at John’s disgusted yelp. 

John pulls them both into the shower after, and Auston lets him wash his hair for him, tilting his head back under the spray, and thinks about how Auston’s going to smell like him, and how much he likes that.

“I’m hungry,” Auston says, rifling through his duffel after toweling his hair dry and looking at John like it’s his job to do something about it.

“I’ll Uber Eats something,” John says, pulling out his phone. “Go put on a movie if you want.” He waves a hand at the door, and watches Auston disappear out to the living room.

It’s only when they’re on the couch after, full and satisfied, that John realizes how happy he is right in that moment. He’s comfortable like this, Auston under his arm blinking sleepily at the TV. He’s not entirely sure when it got to this point, and it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like he’s seriously considering anything like this, because Auston’s _Auston_ , and they shouldn’t be here in the first place. It’s just… he wouldn’t mind staying like this for a while. That’s all.

. . .

After a big win against Panthers, the team goes out, taking advantage of the Florida weather halfway through December. 

John doesn’t dance, and neither does Auston apparently. The difference is John hangs back in the booth on his own accord, and Auston’s currently being boxed in at a different one by Naz and Freddie and like, six girls who could be supermodels. One of them keeps sitting _way_ too close, halfway in Auston’s lap, and John hates it, he hates it so much. 

When the girl turns away for a second, saying something to her friend, John takes his chance and finishes his drink, heading towards Auston.

John leans over the back of the booth, touches a hand lightly to Auston’s shoulder, and says right in Auston’s ear, “I’m heading back. You coming?”

“Promised Freddie I’d stay,” Auston says, turning his head, sounding apologetic. “I’ll see you tomorrow, though? Lunch is on me,” he adds, sounding hopeful.

For a second, John’s stunned, but recovers quickly. “Of course. But I’m picking the place too.”

“Alright,” Auston laughs. “Night, JT.” He turns back to the table, and John watches as the girl slides right back over, hand at the crook of Auston’s elbow. 

John doesn’t know why it makes him feel nauseous to see, because what the fuck, Auston’s allowed. John doesn’t _own him_. And besides, it’s not nearly the first time Auston’s been surrounded by girls like this, and he has no idea why it bothers him so much now.

So he takes one last look at how close they’re sitting, the blush on Auston’s cheeks, and leaves. 

. . .

Between a nice Christmas and Boxing Day spent with family and then a trip down to Columbus, December 29th kind of sneaks up on him. He’s had the date circled on his calendar since July, and it’s a little useless to lie to himself and say he’s not nervous. 

_Dinner?_ Anders texts him the morning of. _We don’t head to Buffalo until tomorrow_

 _Of course,_ John replies. _Excited to see you man_

There’s so much media at morning skate he feels almost claustrophobic, but it’s not like he didn’t expect it. He does pretty well, which is to say he gives the normal, bland sound bites and keeps it cliche. 

“I loved my time there,” he says no less than three times, and hopes it comes out as sincere as he truly feels.

He feels better once the reporters clear, and showers quickly, ready to get rest in before the game. Auston catches him on his way out, locker room mostly empty, and leans in, keeping his voice low. 

“Should I come over tonight?” he asks, sounding concerned. 

John hesitates. He’s got dinner with Anders lined up after the game, and there’s no guarantee he’ll be up for anything when it’s done, depending on how both of those things go. But if he’s being honest with himself, he might as well, because if it all goes south Auston would be the company he prefers afterwards anyway. 

“I’m gonna go out to dinner with Anders after the game, but yeah, you should come over. You can wait for me at my place if you want, I might be late,” he says without thinking. And yeah, it could be _really_ late. He hadn’t exactly told too many people when he left, and it’s been a _long_ time since he’s talked to Anders, and even longer since he’s seen him in person. Maybe he’s upset about it still-- John has no clue.

Auston blinks at him. “Oh, uh, okay,” he says slowly. “But I can’t get into your place if you’re not there, so.”

Right. He hadn’t thought that part all the way through, but hey, it’s an easy fix.

“I’ll bring you a key before the game. You can keep it. I don’t need it anyway. We’ll talk later, ‘kay?” He says and turns away, distracted.

“Uh, yeah,” Auston says, and John’s out the door before he think too much about the dumbfounded look on Auston’s face.

. . .

It’s fucking weird on this side of the game for the first time in his life.

He wasn’t under any impressions that there would be any friendly chirping, but still, he’s never been on the receiving end of one of Cal’s hip checks before, and they hurt like a motherfucker. He catches Hickey’s eye as he circles around to a faceoff, and there’s no trace of recognition there, which hurts even more than the hits. But John’s a professional, and isn’t going to let a lack of friendliness throw his game off. So he squares his shoulders, focuses on ref’s hand until the shapes in his peripheral blur into a mass of blue and orange, and wins the faceoff.

He’s so relieved he could cry when he scores-- the game winner, a powerplay goal off his stick in the third. The ACC is so loud it feels like it’s shaking under his skates, and it feels nothing short of poetic when Auston’s the first to reach him at the boards.

Media after is unbearable, as expected, but it’s definitely easier with a win on his shoulders instead of a loss. He can’t really imagine what they’re asking the guys in the other locker room right now, and doesn’t really want to think about what it would be like in their shoes. He tries to keep his answers as short as possible, itching to get out of there. He’s got plans.

. . .

Anders hugs him when he sees him in the visitor’s hallway, and John feels a weight he didn’t know he was carrying lifted off his shoulders.

Other guys stop by too, Cal, Bails, Case, Ebs, Brock, and John hugs them all. It’s not the same, of course, but. It’s something.

John made last minute reservations for them at a steakhouse, only feeling a little bit bad that he pulled the Maple Leaf card. The drive over is quiet, but not awkward. John doesn’t mind. They’ll have plenty of time to talk when they get there anyway. 

They get seated at a back table, the waitress doing her best to keep them out of sight. It doesn’t work, but John’s gotten used to the glances everywhere he goes at this point. It’s not like he didn’t know what coming to Toronto meant in that regard. 

Anders notices the way he winces slightly when he sits, and smirks. 

“Cal’s an animal, isn’t he?”

John laughs. “We both knew that already.”

They order some French wine John definitely butchers the name of, and then Anders looks at him for a few moments, and the questions start coming. He asks about the city, coming home, after John’s parents, his sisters, the team, but never anything about leaving. Nothing about New York. John’s grateful for it, and allows himself to start relaxing for the first time all day.

Then-- “How’s Matthews?” Anders asks, voice tilting and teasing, and John chokes on his wine.

He coughs into his napkin, trying not to die in public, sure his face is probably fire red right now. In retrospect, he realizes a little too late there’s no way Anders meant it like that either, definitely just asking politely after his new team and young stud of a franchise center. When he finally gets his breathing under control, Anders face is twisted into a mixture between disappointment and pity, and John kind of wants to disappear right then and there.

“Oh man,” Anders says quietly, knowingly, “You’re not,” and John doesn’t even have to say anything for him to know.

“Jesus, JT,” Anders says, shaking his head and sitting back in his chair.

John shrugs, faux casual. “It’s nothing serious,” he says, and it’s true. It’s not serious, and like, Auston is probably still sleeping with other people on the side. And why wouldn’t he? He’s young, attractive, famous. It would be wrong of John to keep him tied down like that, as much as he wants to, sometimes.

“Does he know that?”

He hesitates. “Yes,” he says, but he can hear the question in his own voice. 

The truth is, in the months this has been a thing, they’ve never talked about it. Neither of them are big talkers to begin with, and it was always easier to just ignore it. Don’t fix what isn’t broken, right?

It’s not serious, at all, but John wants-- he wants too much, and Auston still feels too young sometimes, and he’s reminded of it every time Auston blows off video games or lunch dates with the younger guys to come to John’s place. He doesn’t know, can’t be entirely sure, but there’s no reason for Auston to think otherwise. John’s been so careful not to push him, never asking for anything more than Auston is willing to give on his own.

Anders raises an eyebrow at him. 

“So Barzy and Tito,” John starts, desperately trying to change the topic. 

It works, but only because Anders is the best, and he tells John about the “children’s big fight” and how it took the world’s funniest team intervention to sort it all out, and then keeps talking and doesn’t stop. 

Ebs got lost looking for bagels the other day, Leddy still acts like he’s not a day over 20, Ladd keeps getting on the ice with his skate guards on and no one bothers reminding him anymore, and suddenly John’s not sure this is any better than what they were talking about before. 

He misses it like crazy, but he’s here now. He’s happy here, and that’s not a lie. Sometimes, though, he still thinks about Long Island, and how much he meant it when he called it home, and isn’t sure when that changed, or if it ever really did.

. . .

It’s late when he gets in his Uber, a little tipsy, and he hates himself for the fact that the entire ride home all he thinks about is New York and how Auston will be waiting for him when he gets back. 

Auston throws a blanket off himself and stands up from the couch as John gets the door open.

“Hey,” Auston says, coming up to him as he takes off his coat. Auston’s out of his game day suit and in sweats now, a soft long sleeve shirt hanging off his shoulders. John can’t help but notice he’s swaying a little, eyes unfocused, and reaches out without thinking to steady him as he toes off his shoes. 

“Hey,” John says, and puts a hand on his hip. “You go out with the guys?”

“Yeah,” Auston says, slurs, a bit. “‘M drunk.”

It’s obvious. John laughs a little. “I can tell.”

“Was fun,” Auston says, and blinks at him slowly. “Missed you though. How was dinner?”

“Fine,” John says, short. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not with Auston and not like this, anyway. He can tell Auston wants to pry for more, curious, so he reels Auston all the way in with a hand at the back of his neck and kisses him thoroughly before he can ask. 

Auston kisses back, sloppy and uncoordinated but still enthusiastic, as always. Something churns in his stomach at the thought that he knew he could always count on this, on Auston, being here for him like this, when he wants. Does it make him a bad person that he gives into the urge every time anyway? 

His train of thought is thankfully cut short by Auston stumbling forward into him, and he’s momentarily distracted by having to brace himself to catch him.

“Bedroom?” Auston asks, half slumped against him, the look on his face so sweet as he tilts his chin up to look at John. John doesn’t know what expression is on his own face right now, and hopes Auston’s drunk enough that he can’t read it regardless.

John takes him upstairs, then fucks Auston so slow Auston almost cries, his leg wrapped around John’s hip and head thrown back, breaths hitched. He looks so beautiful, John thinks, arching under him, fingers slipping against John’s shoulders, hair spilled across John’s sheets, and spread out just for him.

John presses his mouth to the column of Auston’s throat, and wonders what it means that each time they do this it gets harder to stop himself from leaving bruises.

“John,” Auston says, shuddering as John presses an open mouthed kiss there instead. “I-- harder, _please,_ ” and his voice breaks.

“I’ve got you,” John murmurs into the jut of Auston’s collarbone, and shuts his eyes at the sound of Auston’s exhale.

. . .

The light wakes him up the next morning, and it feels late enough that it startles him, eyes flying open in a panic before he realizes he has nowhere to be. They have a few days off for New Year’s, though there is open ice if they want it. Morning skate is optional, and John guesses neither he nor Auston is in much condition to get on the ice right now anyway.

Auston’s pressed against his side under the covers, face in the crook of John’s neck, fingers curled loosely against John’s chest, still asleep. John feels a rush of fondness reaches out with his free hand, gently brushing the hair out of his face. John lets his fingers linger, and tucks him closer.

He reaches out for his phone and scrolls through his notifications, content to stay in bed for a little longer. Aside from some texts from the team group chat and friends and family, a few messages from the Isles catch his eye, Anders in particular. 

_Good to see you again. Miss you like crazy, man. If you ever wanna talk you know I’m here._

Last night comes back to him in a rush-- the game, dinner, the sex, the heavy feeling in his chest, and he feels sick. When he’d cleaned them up last night, Auston drifting off already, he’d wondered briefly how it got so bad so fast. At the time, he’d chalked it up to the endorphins, or the alcohol, or maybe just the way Auston had said his name with a hoarse voice and bright eyes, over and over. How stupid it was, then, that he fell asleep thinking it would all be normal again in the morning.

 _Don’t worry about it,_ he replies, hands shaking. _I’m fine._

He untangles himself from the mess of Auston’s limbs quietly, and goes to make breakfast.

John’s just getting through cutting up the vegetables when Auston comes padding through the doorway. John glances over his shoulder to see Auston’s sleepy smile aimed at him, wrapped in John’s comforter and hair sticking out in every direction.

He turns away to hide his own helpless grin, and gets started on the eggs.

“Morning.” Auston hooks his chin over John’s shoulder and presses his nose to the side of his neck, a little cold.

“Morning,” John replies, and lets Auston kiss him in greeting.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks.

“Good,” Auston says simply. “You tired me out,” he adds, and laughs when John groans.

“I wanted you to make pancakes,” Auston says, and John rolls his eyes. 

“You’re lucky I’m making you breakfast at all buddy,” he says, nudging Auston towards the island. “Omelettes. Take it or leave it. And go sit over there, you’re distracting me.”

Auston waggles his eyebrows at him and steals a few bits of tomato, before sliding into a stool, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.

“Go put on a sweatshirt or something if you’re cold,” John says. “And put my comforter back.”

“Fine,” Auston says easily, and John doesn’t think much of the glint in his eyes until he comes back as John’s finishing up, wearing just boxers and _John’s_ hoodie, 91 printed on the shoulder. 

“Goddammit,” John says, but there’s no heat behind it. And how could there be? When Auston’s laughing at him like this, bright and loud, in John’s kitchen eating John’s food, kicking at John’s ankles to his left.

John finds his mind wandering as they eat. Maybe his apartment is too chilly, he thinks, especially since he knows Auston hates the cold but hates putting on clothes just as much. Maybe he should turn the heat up for him, just a little bit, if Auston wants. Or maybe he should start letting Auston leave his own clothes here, so he doesn’t have to take John’s all the time, as much as John secretly likes it--

He cuts off his train of thought right there, because if he lets it go any further he might have to ask Auston to leave before he does something really stupid, like kiss him and try and keep him forever. He wants-- he wants a lot, if he’s being honest with himself. He wants this-- breakfast in the mornings, the sleepy kiss Auston had pressed to his mouth first thing, Auston in his clothes. And he wants more-- too much, from Auston, who is young and brash enough to give it all up too easily.

Auston leaves to go back to his place after breakfast, still wearing John’s sweatshirt. John knows he’s acting weird, and feels like shit that he’s relieved when Auston goes.

“See you tomorrow,” Auston chirps, and with a quick kiss, he’s out the door. 

. . .

John can’t stop thinking about it all day, and it fucking sucks.

They’re all going out tomorrow for New Year’s Eve as a team, so there’s no chance he can skip that and have it go unnoticed. There’s also no chance Auston won’t be completely hammered, loose and pliant, hanging all over everyone-- John included. It’s going to be hard not to just say fuck it and let it happen, not when Auston gives him that smile, puts his hands all over John in front of everyone the way he only does when he’s drunk and happy.

There’s only one way to go from here, and John knows exactly what it is. He also knows exactly what he’s going to let himself do tomorrow, and that he has no resolve to stop it.

So yeah, it really fucking sucks.

. . .

As hard as he tries to avoid Auston, it doesn’t really work. He and Mitch are everywhere together, like a damn two-headed monster, well on their way to plastered before John’s finished his first drink. He mingles, best he can, though the WAGs filtering in and out of every conversation makes it marginally more difficult. Eventually he gives up and sticks to Naz and his fiance, content to float around like Naz’s shadow. 

He’s actually getting into a conversation about yoga with Gards’ wife when he feels a pressure at his elbow, and hears an unmistakable voice saying his name.

“Excuse me,” John says to her, as politely and smoothly as he can with Auston tugging at him.

“What are you doing,” he hisses, as Auston leads him down the hall of Mo’s condo, taking turns until they end up in a dark hallway. 

“Countdown,” Auston says. “Almost time.”

Auston is so drunk. John thinks to yesterday. He shouldn’t. 

“Alright,” he says instead, and lets Auston push him up against the wall.

From somewhere else in the house, someone is yelling. _Thirty seconds._

They don’t speak, and it feels like an eternity of them just sharing space and breath.

_Ten--_

“JT,” Auston says, so quiet against the muffled background noise.

John doesn’t respond. He thinks about yesterday again. He shouldn’t.

_Five, four--_

He should go.

_Three, two--_

Auston kisses him, closed mouthed and sweet. 

“Happy New Year,” Auston says, just as soft, and John wants to cry.

. . . 

Mo finds him on the balcony some indiscriminate amount of time later. John’s got a drink, procured from somewhere he can’t remember, but he hasn’t taken a sip of it yet. 

“Guys’re wondering where you are,” Mo says, settling into the seat next to him. The chairs are uncomfortable, and it’s freezing. John hadn’t noticed before, somehow, despite it being the dead middle of winter in Toronto, but now he shivers and pulls his coat tighter. 

“Guys?” John asks, a little more concerned with how Mo felt the need to come check on him like a concerned parent.

Mo hums in response. “Yeah. Well, Auston, mostly. Wouldn’t leave me alone about it. Sent him home with Freddie just now, so don’t worry.”

There’s a question in his tone that John doesn’t particularly want to answer. John eyes him.

“Thank you,” he says carefully. “I-- Whatever you think is going on between us… it’s-- I’m handling it,” he settles on, because _ending it_ feels like too much to say right now, his heart caught in his throat. 

“You know what you’re doing?” Mo says, serious, but not so much a question.

John pauses, looks out at the city in front of him. The expanse of water frozen into a perfect, infinite sheet of ice, the glimmer of lights, the fireworks in every color, the snow falling in perfect flurries-- home. And somewhere down there Auston’s drunk in a cab, and John wonders if Auston’s thinking about him too.

“Fuck no,” John says eventually, just as serious, letting his head fall back against the seat. “Not a damn clue.”

. . .

It takes a week to work up to it, and John refuses to think about how many times he let them fuck around anyway in that time period, how many times he’d swallowed his guilt just so he could get off one more time.

 _Door’s unlocked,_ Auston texts him as the doorman buzzes him up.

John tucks his phone into his pocket, and rides the elevator up alone, feeling jittery. There’s no reason to be nervous. He planned it perfectly-- at Auston’s place so he can duck out when he needs to, not before a game day, after skate so it won’t fuck up their practice. He’s practiced exactly what he’s going to say so many times he could recite it like reading off a script. 

Sure enough, the door clicks open when he tries the handle, and Auston’s lying on the couch, phone inches from his face.

“Auston,” John starts, stopped in the doorway of the living room, and takes a breath. The sooner the better, right? Rip the bandaid off.

“One sec,” Auston says, not looking away from his phone, and John watches him poke his tongue out of his mouth and the front flash go off. Then he taps away at his screen, before pressing send and locking his phone. 

“Sorry,” Auston says, rolling off the couch and standing up. “That was Willy on snap. Can’t ignore him, you know how he gets.”

“Right,” John says slowly, and before he can blink, Auston’s in front of him, looping his arms around John’s neck.

“Hi,” Auston says, and grins at him.

John should stop this right now, before it gets too far. If he lets Auston kiss him right now, they’re not going to be able to stop, and it’s going to make what he has to do infinitely more difficult. But-- it’s Auston, and John’s track record here is abysmal.

Auston takes him upstairs, and John’s not proud of how easy it is for Auston to goad him into spreading him out on the sheets, blowing him and letting Auston get a hand in his hair when he comes, hot in John’s mouth.

“Fuck me,” Auston says, after, still breathing hard.

“You sure?” John asks, but he’s already reaching for a condom.

“Yeah,” Auston says, and wraps his legs around John’s waist, half hard again already. As if John needed another reminder of Auston’s age, here with Auston grinding up against him.

If this is the last time they’re going to do this, John should slow it down. It’s still so good, it always is. But Auston’s keyed up, impatient, and digs his heels into John’s back, reaching for John’s shoulders.

When John slides into him, Auston lets out a moan, grip tightening, but pushes back to meet his thrusts almost immediately.

“C’mon,” he says breathily, like John’s thrusts aren’t enough. “Put your back into it old man,” and it comes out on a laugh.

John flinches. But Auston doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, lips still stretched into an infuriating smile. So John redoubles his efforts, bending Auston nearly in half and gets a hand around him. Auston’s arches up into his grip, panting, words knocked out of him.

“C’mon,” John mocks, and probably deserves the way Auston bites him hard where his shoulder meets his neck when he comes.

It doesn’t take long for John after that, not with the way Auston watches him with half lidded eyes, chest heaving as he clenches around John.

“Fuck,” John swears, and finishes inside Auston. 

“Fuck,” he says again, as he collapses on top of Auston, and this time because he’s thinking about what comes next.

As much as he wants to stay where he is, Auston tucked under him, he knows it’s now or never, and braces himself as he pulls out and sits on the edge of the bed. His back is turned towards Auston, and he feels like a fucking coward that he can’t even look Auston in the eye.

John stands and reaches for his clothes.

“I should’ve said this earlier,” he begins. 

“What’s going on?” Auston asks. “Where are you going?”

“We shouldn’t do this anymore,” John says, voice even. “This-- It’s over, Auston.”

Auston is quiet for so long that John can’t stand it, and turns to face him. Auston’s looking at him in shock, like he didn’t see this coming. He probably didn’t, because he probably never looked that far into the future regarding them. Only saw what was right in front of him and took what he could get. John searches Auston’s face for something, but looks away when all he sees are things that would make him want to take it all back. To stay.

“So what was this then?” Auston asks, finally, gesturing between them where he’s still naked, sheets pooled around his waist. “A pity fuck before you broke up with me?” 

“I didn’t break up with you. Is that what you think this is?” John doesn’t scoff, but it’s a near thing.

“So then what is this,” Auston says, desperate. “You said this is over.” 

“It is over, yeah. We just were never dating. So it’s not a _break up_ ,” John says, pulling on his pants, because what the fuck, they _never_ talked about that. He wanted it, of course, but-- they couldn’t. They can’t. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Auston demands, sitting up straighter, voice laced with anger now. John looks over, and catches a brief flash of pain in Auston’s eyes. Then it’s gone, as quickly as it came.

“You’re 21,” John says, and it comes out accusatory. Like an excuse. A mirror of the first night-- trying to convince himself not to do something in a situation he realized too late he had no control over. 

“So?” Auston’s voice is rising, and John’s never seen him actually angry before, and doesn’t particularly want to see it for the first time now. “So what?”

“You’re being immature,” John says, because Auston sounds just like a child who isn’t getting what he wants, two seconds from stomping his feet. 

“You won’t take me seriously because I’m 21,” Auston says, voice flat, like an observation.

“That’s not what I meant,” John says, scrubbing a hand at his face. “You’re being difficult and you know it.”

“Stop,” Auston says harshly. “Stop talking to me like I’m some stupid teenager and tell me why the fuck you’re doing this.” 

“Listen, Auston. I’m-- we shouldn’t have done this today, because that’s not what I came here to do, so I’m sorry. But I mean, we weren’t dating,” John says, keeping his voice steady as he tugs his shirt over his head. _The script,_ he thinks. 

“We never talked about it, and we shouldn’t have been doing any of this in the first place. It was my mistake, and I’m sorry. I couldn’t do that to you. When I say you're 21, I mean that you’re 7 years younger than me and I-- I can’t do that. You’re young-- go have fun. Go hook up, hang out with Mitch and Willy and Hyms and Kappy. You can date one of those models you hook up with when I’m not around.” 

He doesn’t mean for the last line to come out so bluntly, because he genuinely wants Auston to just be happy. But it’s beyond the point of salvaging now, and he might as well stop pretending that seeing Auston surrounded by picture perfect girls every time they went out did anything but make him irrationally jealous. Which-- there we go. He had no right to be, and that’s why he has to end this before he lets it go any further.

“You--“ Auston starts, and then stops, seemingly at a loss for words. “Fuck you,” he spits, finally. “You don’t know what I want.” 

“Maybe not,” John admits. “You’ll be happier without this, though. Trust me. You can find someone else. It was just sex.”

Auston sits back like he’s been slapped, flinching hard. When he looks back up at John his eyes are hard, and it’s terrifying. 

“Get out,” Auston snaps, voice shaking. “Holy shit, John. Get out.” 

“Okay, okay,” John says, placating. He’s not sure what part of that was the wrong thing to say, but he backs off, holding up his hands in surrender. “I was going anyway.”

He chances a look back as he gets the door open, and Auston’s still in bed where he left him, but has the sheets drawn up to his chest now, covering himself. His face is perfectly blank, no trace of any of the emotion that had been spilling over just seconds ago. It’s his media face, as John’s come to learn-- a carefully curated mask. John sees it, and goes.

. . .

John doesn’t really have time to dwell on it, which is sort of a relief. They fly out to New Jersey the next day after morning skate, so John slides into his seat next to Naz on the plane after a morning of avoiding Auston. That goes easy enough, because Auston seems to have the same agenda, although Mitch keeps shooting him these _looks_ , and it leaves John wondering exactly who knows what around here.

“You good man?” Naz asks him, nudging him with his shoulder. 

“Of course,” John says, and forces a smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look tired,” Naz presses, stubborn as always. 

“Didn’t sleep too well last night,” John shrugs, and that’s a fucking understatement. 

“Auston problems?” Naz asks, and John’s lucky he’s not drinking his water right now, because he definitely would’ve spit it everywhere. First Anders, now Naz, and it has him seriously questioning how much of an open book he really is.

“ _No,_ ” John says emphatically. “Why do people keep asking me that?”

“Kid’s like practically in love with you,” Naz says like it’s nothing, nodding towards Auston’s seat a few rows up. Auston’s facing them but asleep, luckily, slumped against Freddie who’s watching a movie on his phone. Auston looks like shit, hair a mess the way he usually never lets it get around the team, bags under his eyes purple. “And he looks terrible too. Just saying.”

 _Dammit, Naz._ When the fuck did he get so observant?“Shut up,” John says, and shoves at Naz, but it comes out weaker than it should. “He’s _not_ , come on.”

“Hey,” Naz says without missing a beat, holding up his hands in surrender. “Just calling it like I see it. You two just spend a lot of time together, it’s pretty cute. And I don’t really care, duh. Just don’t fuck up the team, and it’s chill.”

John doesn’t know how to tell Naz that it’s very much _not chill_ right now without spilling everything, so he just nods, and doesn’t say anything at all.

. . .

They lose to New Jersey. It’s not ideal, obviously, because the Devils are at the bottom of their division and just barely scraping by, and John hates to lose. It’s frustrating, and despite his goal Auston looks frustrated too. 

“We just weren’t good enough,” Auston snaps at the reporters, and John straightens up instinctively from where he’s finishing getting undressed after his own postgame. There’s nothing he can do about it though, and is resigned to watching warily as Mo asks Auston if he can talk to him outside.

By the time they lose again, to Boston at home in overtime that Saturday, John’s practically crawling out of his skin with pent up emotion, and instead of going out he goes right home without offering an excuse to anyone. He’s pissed off about some questionable hits in the third still, a close call with a high stick, and he’s just tired. He’s annoyed, too, at Auston, who gave clipped answers to the media again, then stomped into the showers and out of the rink without so much a word to anyone. All week he’s been like this-- snappish and rude and frankly immature, and a part of John knows it’s his fault, but he can’t really muster up the energy to give half a shit right now. Without his usual distraction of, well, Auston, the week has dragged on, and he just wants it to be over.

John’s drifting on the couch a couple hours later, TSN still rolling clips on his TV in the background, when he’s startled awake by a knock at his door. He’s not expecting anyone, and checks the time on his phone. It’s after midnight, and now John’s really curious.

He looks through the peephole and nearly swallows his tongue.

“John,” Auston says, way too loud for this time of night, and reaches out to bang on the door again, like John doesn’t have a perfectly good doorbell. “I know you’re in there, open the fucking door.”

John scrambles to unlock the door, and when the door swings open Auston looks at him surprised, like he wasn’t expecting John to actually open up. 

“Auston,” John says. “What-- what the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re an asshole,” Auston says, which, like fine, but it isn’t an answer. Then he pushes past John into the house, and John lets him, shutting the door in a daze. 

“This is yours,” Auston says, turning around abruptly, and only then does John notice the gray hoodie tucked under Auston’s arm that he shoves at John. “I don’t want it. I came to give it back, and also to say fuck you.”

John wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, at the petulance in Auston’s voice, but takes the hoodie from him silently. Auston tips forward a little, and on instinct, John reaches out to steady him.

Auston’s jacket is unzipped, and that’s when John notices.

“Auston, god, you’re in nothing but a t-shirt under that, you-- How drunk _are you?_ ,” John asks, eyes wide. “Tell me you didn’t drive.”

“I didn’t--” Auston hiccups, and moves out of John’s reach. “I didn’t drive. I know you think I’m stupid but I didn’t. I Ubered.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” John says.

“Fine,” Auston says. “Not stupid. Just a kid. Same thing.”

John chooses to ignore that for the sake of his own sanity. “Where were you?” He asks instead.

“My place, obviously.”

“You got drunk alone?” 

“No,” Auston scoffs. “I got drunk with Mitchy. He’s-- he’s still there. We went to bed, but I was-- I got cold, and I went to get a sweatshirt and I found that. And I got pissed off, and I didn’t want it. I don’t want it.”

“So you came all the way here just to… to give me this back?” John looks down at the sweatshirt in his hands. He hadn’t even remembered Auston had it, to be perfectly honest, but now that he has it again all he can think about is the way Auston looked that morning, in his bed, in his kitchen, in his clothes, and it’s so, so overwhelming. His hands are fisted so tightly in the fabric now he thinks he could tear right through it, and he forces himself to take a deep breath.

“No,” Auston says. “I also have things to say to you.”

“Okay, fine,” John says, and crosses his arms. “Say them then so I can go to bed.”

“Oh _now_ you wanna hear what I have to say, huh?” Auston sneers, and it’s clear he wants to pick a fight. John’s not even remotely interested in that right now, and forces himself to keep his voice calm.

“Auston--“ he warns, and it must work because Auston doesn’t try again. 

“I thought we were dating,” Auston says. “Maybe it’s stupid, but I did.”

“You’re really stuck on the whole dating thing, aren’t you?” It comes out way more condescending than intended, and John winces. 

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Auston snarls, and takes a wobbly step towards John. John doesn’t flinch though, and he’s pretty proud of that.

“I don’t really know why you’re so upset about this,” John says. And he’s not even saying it to be mean, because seriously, they played hockey, and they hooked up. It wasn’t a big deal. 

“You said it was just sex,” Auston says, shoving at John angrily. He’s uncoordinated enough at this point that John bats his hand away easily, but Auston continues. “And-- it’s my fault, isn’t it? Because I was the one that was stupid enough to think we were together, right? That you would ever want to... Like of course, we never talked about it. But I didn’t think we had to. And it wasn’t enough that you made me feel like an idiot, but you-- you fucked me, then you dumped me, and then basically told me I was easy. That’s-- that’s fucked up.” 

“Auston,” John says, and struggles to find the words. “You know I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t mean any of it like that.”

“I never know what you mean,” Auston says, and his voice cracks, helpless. “I just always thought-- you never said-- I just liked you _so much_.”

John’s stunned by Auston’s admission, heart pounding, unable to form a response.

Auston looks at him, eyes still wet, and something must show on his face, because Auston shakes his head.

“Fuck,” he says, and laughs, wiping at his eyes. It comes out bitter, self deprecating. “I sound like I’m in high school, Jesus. I know you hate that, so, uh, sorry.”

And why the fuck is Auston apologizing here? John feels sick to his stomach, suddenly.

“Don’t apologize,” John says, deflating. “I think-- I think we should talk about this when you’re sober.”

“I’m fine,” Auston protests, but John thinks both of them know he isn’t really, judging by the way Auston lets John steer him with a hand on his lower back.

“Guest room,” John says, and it feels weird when they walk right by the door to John’s room that they’ve slept in together so many times before now. 

“I’m gonna get you some water,” John says, and backs out of the room as Auston strips to get in bed.

Auston’s half asleep by the time he comes back with a glass, and John has to coax him to sit up and drink. It doesn’t really help the situation much that it makes him feel like his mom, the way she used to take care of him when he was sick. 

_Auston’s at my place,_ John texts Mitch before he goes to sleep. _Don’t freak out when you wake up and can’t find him._

John climbs into his own bed, and irrationally contemplates chewing Mitch out for letting Auston get drunk like this. But that’s exactly what it is, irrational, because Auston can make his own decisions, and if they’re getting technical with the blame, John guesses it’s his fault, really. He puts his phone on the bedside table, and shuts his eyes.

John sleeps in fits that night, and spends his stretches awake wondering if Auston’s cold in the guest room alone, because he still hasn’t turned the heat up in his house. 

. . .

John wakes the next morning when his door opens, Auston coming in quietly. His arms are crossed over his chest, still shirtless, and he’s shivering. Of course, John thinks, sitting up against the headboard. Of course he’s cold. He’s always cold.

“Do you want--” John stops. Would it be out of line to offer a sweatshirt? Especially considering the only one he sees right now is the one Auston came to give back to him in the first place?

“No,” Auston snaps, and John can’t tell if the irritation is from the fact that he’s terrible in the mornings, or the fact that he probably hates John’s guts. Both, probably. “I can’t find mine. Did I wear one here last night?”

“You-- no, you didn’t,” John says, shaking his head. “You just had a t-shirt and your Canada Goose. I-- How much do you remember?” he asks.

“I remember enough,” Auston says, sitting at the edge of the bed, eyeing John warily. 

“So you remember everything you said, then,” John says, and Auston nods miserably. 

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “And my fucking head hurts, holy shit.”

“You were pretty drunk,” John says gently, and gets up, grabbing a pair of sweatpants. 

“Come on,” he says. “If we’re gonna talk, we might as well do it over eggs and coffee.”

Auston makes a face. “I hate coffee,” he says, but follows him out anyway.

. . . 

Auston pokes his eggs around halfheartedly, taking a few bites, but it doesn’t look like he has much of an appetite. John gets it. They’ve got a lot to talk about.

John watches as Auston pushes his plate away and takes a breath, and starts talking without looking at John.

“Did I do something? Or do you just think I’m immature?” he asks, voice small. “Like is that why you broke up with-- I mean, ended things? Because you think I’m a dumb kid?”

“Oh jeez, Auston, no, that’s not it. You deserve someone your own age, that’s all I meant. This-- what was happening between us-- that was keeping you from a real relationship, and I felt horrible about it,” John says. Auston doesn’t look up at him, but presses his lips together in a thin line.

“I didn’t want a real relationship with anyone else, John,” he says. “Because I thought I had one with you, and I was _happy_ with it. And then you told me it was over, out of the blue, right when I thought things had been going well.”

“That’s the thing, though. That’s why I ended it. I mean, I liked you too much,” John says. “I was getting too comfortable, and I wanted to date you for real, and it was scaring the shit out of me. Like, I was getting used to having you around all the time, and I was getting jealous when I shouldn’t have been. I had no right to be any of those things. You’re allowed to sleep with whoever you want, and it scared me how upset I was that you were taking people home that weren’t me.”

And that gets Auston to look up. “I wasn’t sleeping with other people, JT, what the hell?”

“What?”

“I told you-- I thought we were dating. It… that would’ve been like cheating,” Auston says.

“You’re serious,” John says, letting out a breath. “About this. About us.”

“I liked you so much,” Auston says, and looks away again. “I thought I was obvious about it.”

“You definitely weren’t obvious,” John says, because there’s no way he would’ve missed all the signs. 

“I asked you to lunch like practically the first time I saw you,” Auston says.

“I thought Mo was supposed to be there,” John says.

“I told you Mo had, and I quote, _a thing_. A thing! And you believed me!” Auston cries.

“Well,” John says, and doesn’t really have a response to that. 

“Then you gave me a key,” Auston points out. To be fair that was to make it easier for them to see each other, but of course, John never considered how that would look to literally anyone but him. 

“You were my New Year’s kiss,” Auston says, and the memory is so sweet it makes him ache a little bit. Jesus, what was he thinking? How did he not see this? 

“And you were the first person I went to after games,” Auston says. “The last person I ever wanted to see before going to bed. I would’ve moved in with you if you had asked, probably, seeing how often we spent the night anyway. I wanted it every night.” 

And John never really thought about it, but in retrospect, it happened a lot more than he had anticipated. He got so used to the feeling of Auston dozing in his arms, body lax against his, that he hadn’t even realized. It was, from an outside perspective, or from Auston’s perspective too, a relationship. But-- 

“All we ever did was have sex,” John says, and that’s a fact. He can’t remember a time they hung out alone and didn’t.

“I asked,” Auston says quietly. “Do you remember that?” 

And John remembered a little bit, vaguely, but it comes back to him now that Auston mentions it. There was the time Auston had come over with takeout, but they’d ignored it in favor of making out on the couch instead. John remembers Auston straddling him, his surprise as Auston stopped abruptly. 

“We don’t have to,” he had said, hands stilling on John’s chest. “We don’t have to have sex every time if you don’t want to. Like, we can do other stuff sometimes too. If you want.” He had sounded uncharacteristically shy, and John feels bad now at the way he completely misread it. 

“Sure.” His response had been flippant, probably negated by the fact that he tugged Auston closer with both hands on his ass. “But you’re hot-- why wouldn’t I want this?”

John hasn’t realized what Auston really meant, at the time. Things would’ve been different now if he had, probably. 

“Oh,” John says intelligently. “I-- I didn’t get it. Sorry.” 

Auston doesn’t say it’s okay, but nods at him and gives him a small smile before continuing. 

“And like you said, I ditched everyone, and I mean _everyone_ , so many times. It annoyed Mitch, a little bit, but I think… I think Freddie knew.”

“You didn’t have to-“ John starts. 

Auston cuts him off. “Shut up John. Let me finish. And don’t give me that. I know I didn’t have to. I didn’t have to do any of it. I wanted to.”

Auston looks down at his hands. “I-- I still want to,” he admits quietly. 

“Me too,” John says, and he feels awful. “I’m sorry. I should’ve said something before. I fucked up. I’m sorry,” he says again.

“You’re an idiot,” Auston says, but smiles at him nonetheless.

“I’m an idiot,” John echoes, nodding.

“You’re lucky I like that,” Auston says, still smiling.

“I’m sorry,” John says again. “I just-- are we okay?”

Auston visibly hesitates. “I don’t know what you want from me, John,” he says. “I don’t know.”

“I told you,” John says, brutally honest. “I want all of it. I want you to be mine for real. I want to try again, and I want to do it right this time. I want--“ he takes a breath, and catches the overwhelmed look on Auston’s face, so vulnerable and real.

“Can I-- Can I kiss you?” he asks, and watches as Auston goes red. 

“Yeah,” Auston says immediately. “Yes.”

John leans in, and the tips of their fingers brush, just barely, on the tabletop. The press of Auston’s lips to his hits him like a wave, the relief soothing, blooming, and instant. It’s soft, gentle, nothing like their first one, and it’s perfect.

+

“I want you to ask me out for real,” Auston says out of the blue, turning down the volume on the TV.

“Okay,” John says, and lets Auston climb into his lap. “I can do that.”

“I want flowers, and dinner, and a movie. I want you to pick me up in your car.” 

“Okay,” John says again without missing a beat.

“And I know this sounds terrifying, but you’re going to have to _talk to me_. Because I’m going to be your _boyfriend._ Plus, I’ve heard communication is cool these days,” Auston says, giddy.

John nods, reaching out to steady Auston with hands on his waist, thumbs stroking at the soft skin of his stomach where his shirt rides up.

“Oh also,” adds Auston. “We’re _not_ going to have sex on the first date.”

“Wh--” John begins to protest, but bites his tongue. “Okay, fine,” he says, wishing he could take the first part back, because now he looks bad, dammit.

Then Auston laughs at him, open and genuine. “Kidding,” he says. “Of course we’re gonna have sex, who do I look like.”

“Oh,” John says, and pulls him closer, pleased when Auston comes easily. “For the record, it’s not about the sex for me, okay? Whatever you want. I’m going to be better, I promise.”

“Yeah,” Auston says, gaze going impossibly soft, and presses a kiss to his jaw. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for alcohol and drunk sex.  
> A major plot point in this is John feeling guilty about Auston's age, but Auston is into it and everything is consensual. John never takes advantage of Auston despite how he feels-- Auston is as into it as he is.
> 
> Also ao3 was cutting it off after Mitch's text because I put an emoji in there and it wouldn't let me, but just know that Mitch Marner uses emojis when he texts. For sure.


End file.
